


Déjà j'ai connu le parfum de l'amour

by WritingQuill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Honeymoon, M/M, Old Age, Paris (City), Rekindling romance, Retirementlock, Romance, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being together for over twenty years, John and Sherlock need to get out of their normal lives to realise what they had been neglecting for a long time - each other.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"They hadn’t travelled like this in a long time, and he was afraid Sherlock would realise how boring John had become outside the walls of their little cottage. He had built this life around Sherlock not finding him boring, but in old age John had settled, and now he was afraid Sherlock might finally change his mind and find him… dull."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Déjà j'ai connu le parfum de l'amour

The Eurostar train was much more comfortable that the East Coast, which was a true relief for an wonky old back. The seats were a bit wider and there was room for miles-long legs of ex-Consulting Detectives, for which said ex-Consulting Detective was quite glad. There was a cup of lukewarm tea (three sugars, no milk) in front of him which had gone unnoticed when placed there by his companion, since his attention had long been captured by the fascinating pages of this book on Chinese chess. Beside him, the ex-Consulting Detective’s blogger was still sipping carefully at his second cup of coffee, just trying to stay awake as the white fluorescent lights shone above their heads and the scenery of Pitch Black Underwater Tunnel passed by outside the window. He was still soldiering on, trying desperately to finish this Margaret Atwood novel, but to no avail. His eyelids were getting closer and closer together, and every blink lasted longer than the one before. 

‘John?’ he heard a voice ask from the depths of slumber. John Watson opened his eyes with a start, to find Sherlock Holmes staring at him with barely-concealed amusement. It was a nice change brought on by years, John would tell you. Well, years, and the lack of London fumes. Sussex had done a world of good to Sherlock Holmes, mellowing him out a bit, making him patient, and even more wise. The lines around his eyes and mouth, and the greyness at his temples were just a bonus. ‘Can’t you sit down for five minutes without falling asleep?’ Sherlock asked, voice tinged with fondness. 

John simply shrugged and cleared his throat. ‘Of course I can! Only not after some crazy genius wakes me up at five in the bloody morning only to drag me to London so we could catch a train to bloody Paris,’ John explained as he blinked hard to remove any leftover sleepiness. 

‘You like Paris. Besides, you’re the one that keeps saying I should be more romantic. This is me being romantic, bringing you on an impromptu second honeymoon in Paris,’ Sherlock said, smiling down at John through his eyelashes, which he _knew_ always brought John to his knees and of course he would do it on purpose after making John get on an Eurostar at seven thirty in the morning. Never mind that they had to skip breakfast and eat awful train-food, no, it was all about being spontaneously romantic. 

No. John wasn’t fooled by that for a second. Sherlock never did anything without an ulterior motive. Even romantic gestures. 

‘I do like Paris. Love it, even. Loved it quite a bit when we came here together on our first honeymoon, which actually ended up not being a honeymoon at all, but a case,’ John complained. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, seemingly bored with the conversation. Sherlock went back to his book, and John huffed a bit, then began leafing through the book about Paris Sherlock had brought along with them. ‘Anyway, did you even book us a hotel, or does this impromptu holiday mean we’ll have to wing it?’ 

Sherlock smirked behind his book and nodded. ‘Of course I booked a hotel, don’t worry. Just relax and enjoy the trip.’ 

So John did. Not before sighing deeply and shaking his head first, though.

*

The thing was, this trip was truly really out of nowhere. As of late, after twenty-plus years together, they were almost like flatmates again, albeit flatmates who shared a bed. Most nights, anyway — except when Sherlock was working late and just slept at the Chesterfield in his office in order not to disturb John, which had him moaning the next morning because his back was just not what it used to be.

Even so, they had grown so familiar with each other, that the intimacy had somehow gone. Gone were the surreptitious touches as something was passed between them. Gone were the stolen kisses, or the random snogs, or the passionate feverish love-making. They were old, tired and retired, and all the fire of those first years was replaced with comfort and familiarity. And though John loved that he knew all the sides of Sherlock’s person, everything about it, even though he loved that he was the only person allowed to witness so many changes within Sherlock Holmes, John missed those early years, he missed feeling desired, wanted, _needed_.

As they walked into the lobby, John felt wary. They hadn’t travelled like this in a long time, and he was afraid Sherlock would realise how boring John had become outside the walls of their little cottage. He had built this life around Sherlock not finding him boring, but in old age John had settled, and now he was afraid Sherlock might finally change his mind and find him… dull. 

He tried to push those fears away, though, since they were now being escorted to their room. 

‘I hope you enjoy your stay, messieurs,’ said the bellhop as he placed their luggage inside the spacious yet cosy room. The room was slightly smaller than theirs at home, with olive-coloured striped wallpaper, furnished with a dark wooden bed which was tastefully made, and a light brown armchair on the corner next to a dark side table. Every wall had an Abstract painting hanging, and almost all non-bed horizontal surfaces had a small vase with an orchid. Across from the bed was the door to their en suite, where the floors were a light grey tile, and the walls white — there was a shower, a toilet and a sink, nothing else. Tasteful and simple. John really liked the room, and the bed looked magnificently comfortable at the moment. 

‘Merci,’ thanked Sherlock, handing the man a note before he left. ‘Finally alone,’ Sherlock smirked. ‘What to do now?’ 

John hummed in thought. The only way to Not Be Boring would be to do things. So do things they shall, he decided. ‘Sightseeing? Not on those horrible buses, just… Shall we take a walk around? See some sights, grab some food?’ 

Sherlock smiled. ‘Sounds good.’ That surprised John, who still thought there was a case behind all this. But Sherlock was being so incredibly nice, he didn’t have the heart to confront him about it again, so he just smiled back and started getting ready to leave.

*

Staying away from the most tourist-y spots was the deal they made. Which was fine with John, actually, because he was just too damn old to be stuck in a queue for hours just to get into a museum. However, John really did want to go on top of the Eiffel Tower, because he’d never been. 

‘Where to next, then?’ Sherlock asked as they exited the Musée d’Orsay — they were having a beautiful Van Gogh exhibition which featured many more pieces than the National Gallery ever managed to get, and Sherlock was, John was pleasantly surprised to find out many years earlier, a big fan of Van Gogh’s work. 

‘Well, I’m starting to feel a bit peckish. How about some lunch?’ 

Sherlock seemed to ponder for a bit, and looked over the Seine. He hummed and nodded. ‘Yes, lunch is a good idea. We walked past a cafe a few blocks back that looks quite good.’ 

‘Brilliant,’ John grinned. ‘Lead the way, Mr Holmes-Watson.’ 

‘As you please, Dr Watson-Holmes.’ They linked arms and grinned playfully at each other, and for a second it was like they were those young things running around London after murderous cabbies again.

*

The waiter left with their orders and John took a sip of the French wine Sherlock had ordered for their table. As soon as that nearly-amber liquid touched his lips, a slight moaned escaped his throat. 

‘This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,’ he commented. Sherlock gasped in mock-indignation. 

‘I’m offended, John. Offended!’ His eyes were wide and his right hand was pressed against his chest. If his lips weren’t trembling on one side to stop himself from smiling, John would’ve thought Sherlock was serious. 

John giggled, then Sherlock joined him. 

After their laughter died down and their entrées arrived, John decided to ask again, ‘why did you bring me here all of a sudden? Our wedding anniversary isn’t for a couple of months yet.’ 

Sherlock swallowed and wiped the corner of his lips with the napkin, before placing it back down on his lap. He looked pointedly at John and sighed. ‘Perhaps I wish to celebrate a different anniversary.’ 

‘And that would be…?’ 

‘The day I accepted that I wanted to be with you forever,’ Sherlock explained. John’s jaw dropped and he was speechless for a few moments, finally regaining enough of his tongue to stammer a series of gibberish syllables. ‘You are making no sense, John.’ 

‘Sorry, I… When was that?’ he asked, because he honest-to-God could not remember. Had they been together then? Surely Sherlock would’ve mentioned this already if they had been. 

‘The day after the Pool. We got back from that first — well, technically second, since we did meet at the lab that one time, though I don’t want to get stuck on semantics — meeting with Moriarty at the Pool, and you went straight to your bedroom. The next morning, when I went to the kitchen you were already up making tea, and you had already made a cup for me. You looked at me and smiled widely, and I knew. I didn’t know I loved you yet, or that I wanted you, but I knew I wanted to be by your side forever.’ 

John felt his eyes sting with fresh tears, but said nothing. He simply nodded and grabbed Sherlock’s hand across the table, twining their fingers and squeezing ever-so-gently. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. Sherlock simpered at him, and they went back to their meal, their fingers still linked. 

That confession actually lifted John’s spirits considerably. He had felt pulled towards Sherlock since their first meeting at Bart’s, and it was nice to know, all these years later, that Sherlock had cared for him from the early days as well. 

And touching Sherlock’s skin felt wonderful. It felt like they hadn’t held hands in so long, and they probably hadn’t. John was busy gardening, writing his books, and exchanging e-mails with his editor, and Sherlock was always occupied as well, arranging and re-arranging that memoir of his that never seemed to be done, tending to the beehives in their garden, and publishing groundbreaking articles and studies from his experiments in the lab John had allowed him to build in their loft. All this time doing their own thing with their own time, they had somehow forgotten how to be a couple. In London there wasn’t much room, they were always cooped up together anyway, always touching in a manner or another. John had to get past Sherlock’s kitchen-lab to get food or tea, and Sherlock had to rest either his feet or head on John’s lap if he wanted to lie dramatically on the sofa whenever there was a Top Gear marathon on Dave. It was easier being physically together then. 

In Sussex, it was like living alone. John could remember days when he didn’t see Sherlock even once, save for when he returned to bed late at night, his cold cold feet pressing against John’s warm shins. They had grown used to not touching each other all the time, to not being so co-dependent. But John missed it, all of it. 

So it was lovely to just hold Sherlock’s hand as they ate in silence, feeling a thumb brush across his skin affectionately.

*

The day went by in a blink. Soon, they were tired out from all the walking and seeing, and walked back to the hotel, where they would shower and rest for a bit before going out to dinner. 

Sherlock went in first, so John took one of the mini bottles of whisky from the minibar and went to have a quiet drink by the small balcony they had, looking over at the Eiffel Tower. He thought about nothing and everything as that giant metal thing shone brightly, illuminating all around it. The whisky brought something poetic out of him, and John realised that Sherlock was a lot like the Eiffel Tower. It was hard, strange and odd, a bit awkward to look at sometimes — as was Sherlock, because those cheekbones and hair and eyes and limbs would not work so well together had they belonged to anyone else — but with all that brightness, all that light, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. John liked to think that he helped bring out that beauty in Sherlock. It’s always been there, the beauty, waiting to be showed and revered and loved. 

A bit of a dodgy simile, but John didn’t mind. He simply put the cap back on the small bottle — now half-empty — and went back into the room to change into his robe before Sherlock got out of the shower. 

As he removed his trousers, John caught a sight of himself in the mirror. His formerly blond hair had gone all grey now, and there were many more lines around his eyes and on his forehead than twenty years ago. His belly was a bit more flaccid, and he was all around… chubbier than he had been when he was in the army. All that was left from those days was that scar, actually. Which was much darker now, a stretched out by the sag brought on by the years. If he were to be completely honest with himself, John would admit that he wasn’t that great to look at these days. He truly looked like an old man, instead of simply dressing like one, and that made him a bit sad. He longed for the days of running impossibly fast to catch criminals, of crazy hard fucking on the bottom of the stairs because they just couldn’t wait to get to the bedroom, of blushing (smugly) whenever he caught Sherlock looking at him with so much… want and desire and lust. It was vain and ridiculous to wish for his thirty-five-year-old body back, but God how he did. Especially these days when everything seemed so… beige. 

John was pulled from his reverie by Sherlock opening the door of the bathroom, robe-clad and wet-haired. He frowned at John as he probably saw everything that was on his mind. 

‘Do you think you’re unappealing to me, is that it?’ Sherlock asked. John shrugged, pulling the robe on over his shoulders. 

‘Not just to you, I guess. It’s old age, nobody things an old man is something to look at. I’m an old man. Ergo.’ He was about to walk into the bathroom, when he was stopped by Sherlock hand on his wrist. ‘Sherlock…’ 

‘No, listen. John, I…’ he stopped and turned John to face him. ‘I love you. Every single bit about you.’ 

‘I know—‘ 

‘You clearly don’t, so let me finish. Look, the true reason why I brought you here was not the anniversary, though that did play quite a part on it.’ 

‘Then why?’ 

‘Because we haven’t kissed in nearly a month. And before that, it was only those small pecks on the lips.’ Sherlock seemed frustrated. ‘And I know you’ve noticed as well, but are too afraid to say anything lest I think we’ve gone boring.’ Seeing the surprise in John’s face, Sherlock smiled. ‘Yes, of course I noticed, that’s what I _do_ , John, I notice things. I noticed we haven’t kissed in a month, barely touched each other, really, in a little under a year. We haven’t gone boring, we’ve gone comfortable, and I—I don’t want that.’ 

They were close now, closer than they had been in ages. ‘What do you want, then?’ 

‘You.’ Sherlock said, a pained expression on his face. ‘I want you to know I still find you extremely desirable, that even though you’ve gone a soft around the edges,’ John chuckled at that, ‘I still love you, so much, and that I will always want you. And that I hate that you think I would ever go anywhere else, or prefer anyone else.’ 

‘Sherlock, I…’ John began, but had no words to finish. He put a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down, crashing their lips together like he had that first time, all those years ago, a lifetime away. Sherlock still tasted the same, he still felt the same. His lips soft and sweet, like decadent chocolate-covered marshmallows. He opened them and their tongues met, electrifying them to their very cores. It was like a current was running through their veins, bringing them impossibly closer, impossibly hotter, more wanting than they had been in such a long time. 

Sherlock pulled John by the small of his back, hugging him close. Their robe-covered chests met, and Sherlock growled, moving his hands quickly to remove the offending robes so their skin could meet. Feeling their warmth combined was like meeting an old friend after a long time. Relieved beyond measure, John pushed Sherlock onto the bad and climbed on top of him, taking his lips once more, biting and sucking, placing small kisses across his jaw and down his neck, tasting that beautiful milky skin, nibbling his way towards an earlobe, which he kissed then suckled on ever-so-slightly, bringing out the most delicious moan from Sherlock, who was running his hands across John’s back, memorising every inch as if it was new. 

And maybe it was. It sure felt like it was. 

It took them longer to get hard these days, due to their bodies getting older. But in a way it was nicer, it allowed them to explore a bit more, to have more fun. Sherlock had always been the type to enjoy foreplay, even if he didn’t seem like it. Tonight, it looked like he wanted to make John feel everything. 

John lay on his back, head against the pillows, eyes wide and mouth watering as he watched Sherlock kiss his way down his body. He had thoroughly lavished his nipples with enough love and attention to make them pleasantly tingly, and was now approaching John’s half-hard penis. Sherlock stopped for a moment and just looked at it. John didn’t know what to do, so he just watched Sherlock watch him, running his eyes through that beautiful face that had only gotten more distinguished and unusual and magnificent with the years. Sherlock lifted his head to smile at him, before placing a gentle kiss at the head of his now-mostly-hard cock. John squirmed as a small wave a pleasure washed through him. It really had been a very long time indeed. 

Sherlock began kissing the length of him, occasionally running his tongue against an exposed vein. Then he moved to the head again and opened his mouth wide, swallowed John as far as he could, using his hand to do the rest. John moaned loudly as that beautiful mouth worked on him. He grabbed Sherlock’s hair as gently as he could in the throes of pleasure, and pulled him up slightly when he felt he was close. 

‘No, stop…’ he breathed out, and Sherlock pulled him out of his mouth with a questioning look. ‘Up… here…’ Sherlock grinned and climbed up again, taking John’s mouth in his, and it was so exciting tasting himself in Sherlock’s tongue once more. 

They were now rutting against each other, their kisses punctuated by their breaths and moans, until finally, John’s pleasure got the best of him. He came furiously, screaming Sherlock’s name as if it were the only word he knew. And Sherlock followed right after, his orgasm hitting him harder than he remembered, and his throat hurt by the time he slumped atop John, their bellies nearly glued together by ejaculate. 

After their breathing normalised again, John decided they were due for a clean up, so he grabbed one of the robes and wiped their bellies, hands, and some bits of the mattress. Sherlock lay looking at him with a small smile.

‘What?’ John asked, beaming as he noticed his husband’s completely debauched position. 

‘Nothing. I just can’t believe we went so long without doing that.’ 

John laughed and nodded. ‘True, but I guess we were busy.’ He lay back with his head resting on Sherlock’s chest and was pulled closer by strong arms closing around him. 

‘Well, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans…’ quoted Sherlock, and John couldn’t help but laugh. 

’Seriously? You remember Lennon, but you can’t remember to buy milk when you’re at the shops?’ 

Sherlock simply shrugged and hugged John tighter. With a smile, John simply let himself be hugged, and allowed all that love to engulf him. 

After a few minutes, a grumbling noise echoed through the room. 

‘I guess we’re a bit hungry…’ said John. ‘Should we go out or…?’ 

‘Given the circumstances, I think it’d be best if we just stayed in and ordered room service.’ 

‘What circumstances?’ asked John as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

Sherlock shot him a smirk, and stood up to pick up the phone, ‘well, my dear, I believe I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you once we’re properly fed, and, though this is France, they would probably frown upon two old men getting frisky at a restaurant table like a couple of teenagers.’ 

John giggled, and, as he watched Sherlock order their food, dressed only in a white sheet, he was immensely glad to have been forced into a train at five in the morning. 

After a delicious meal, and another vigorous round that had them almost immediately asleep, John and Sherlock fell asleep with their naked bodies tangled together for the first time in months.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song 'Sympathique' by Pink Martini, and it translates to "long ago I knew the smell of love" - I thought it fit this particular story really well. 
> 
> This story was inspired by the Roger Mitchell film _Le Week-End_ , which is absolutely wonderful. I thought it'd be interesting to see this side of their relationship after many years of being together, because comfort sometimes does this to people, makes them settle and forget what's important. 
> 
> Also, I should probably clarify because I'm a bad writer who doesn't make things clear: they are in their late 60s/early 70s in this fic, and while I know some people that age are thriving and hippity hoppity still, let's just suspend out disbelief for a minute for the sake of this story n.n 
> 
> Finally, I've got a writing blog now! It's [here](http://writingquill.tumblr.com) if you want to take a look, ask questions, give me some prompts, or check out the progress of my writings. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think.  
> Cheers x


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